The Dark Within
by Snark-bait
Summary: Title: The Dark Within Pairing: Frank/Claire Description: Oneshot. Set moments after Frank comes home after killing Zoe Barnes. Warnings: Adult. BDSM themes throughout.


Title: The Dark Within

Pairing: Frank/Claire

Description: Oneshot. Set moments after Frank comes home after killing Zoe Barnes.

Warnings: Very Adult themes. Pron. BDSM themes throughout.

The Dark Within

After all this time, you've become hyper-attuned to the little changes in his mood, and the infinitesimal variations that can occur in all of them.

He's not an easy man to understand – and even harder to like. But then, you've never been an easy woman to understand, either. It's why you work. You can decode each other, instantly – even in the presence of others, two separate, yet intertwining enigmas - you're like open books to one another, while remaining locked and unreadable to anyone looking on.

From the moment he stepped into the house, there was a change in the air. His mood is dark. No-one else would notice just how dark, but you do. It's the slightest of differences in any given mood that sets you apart. Not even Doug can read him as well as you can when he's like this.

Whenever he arrives home angry, upset, stressed, frustrated – each version of him requires a certain response. Sometimes you recommend exercise, or alcohol. Sometime you prepare some food; sometimes you instigate sex. Sex with you, another woman, another man…

It all depends on that slightest, telling variation in his mood.

Tonight is the rarest kind of variation. Tonight you sense a need for penitence in him, and it is a rare beast. It's not for whoever he's hurt. He doesn't feel remorse or regret. It's for him, whatever it is; tonight he needs to suffer - for himself.

Tonight, he needs to purge himself. Of what, you're not sure yet, but it's almost always irrelevant. What he needs, in this moment, is for him, and it's all that matters.

You've quickly surmised that the answer to tonight's problem falls into the sexual category as far as solutions are concerned, but this _particular_ kind of sex, he never asks for verbally.

Never.

He probably doesn't even know he's asking for it subliminally, but you smell it in the air, like a shark smells blood in the water.

Punishment.

He's done something terrible to someone. Catastrophic even – and he wants you to punish him for it.

"Francis, why don't you go upstairs and get undressed. I'll be up in a moment."

He begins to resist, shaking his head, and mumbling about one of his shooter games – or, maybe how he might grab a bourbon and read that appropriations dossier that's been sitting on his desk all week.

You cut him off with a very swift and sharp right slap to his left cheek.

He looks momentarily dumfounded. Then he's outraged. Part of him is Not in the Mood for _this_ kind of shit – but you're right, as you often are – part of him is craving something devastating. A blazing anger erupts in his eyes before dying as quickly as it arrived.

He frowns, chews the corner of his mouth and silently considers his options. You step around him, sipping at your wine before placing the chilled glass on his slightly reddening cheek.

You lean in and whisper into his ear.

"It wasn't a request dear. Now go upstairs."

"Yes dear," he returns, calmly.

There doesn't need to be any kind of outrageous or titillating outfit to make this work. He wouldn't want you to do that anyway. If cheap, whorish thrills were what he wanted, he'd seek it elsewhere. What's required tonight is precision and pain, resulting in swift and brutal relief.

You get him to strip down to his boxers, while remaining fully clothed yourself. That's always the way this begins. You start the power trade with something tangible and visible. Let his mind soak it all in. You circle him, as if you're inspecting something slightly off about him. Another tangible scene-setter to get his mind racing, and the blood flowing.

_She's in charge – I am not - Is_ the scene you're setting.

"All that power," you say, standing behind him now as you massage his shoulders, "It's so heavy. I see how much it weighs on you. How it can crush. I'm going to take it from you now, in this instance, and it remains with me. So for now, it's off your shoulders. Do you understand that, Frank?"

He nods. You've muted him already? This IS the right answer. Yes, this will all play out perfectly.

This type of _play_ you're about to have is the ONLY time you call him Frank. You don't like calling him by that name. You remember Frank, and he's long gone. The word tastes bitter in your mouth, like blood, or rust, but your use of it diminishes him. Coming from you, it lowers him back down a very deep hole he's been climbing out of for his entire life, and you need him low for this to work.

"Get on your knees, Frank." You place your hands on his shoulders and help/force him to comply.

You have a few new things to use on him this time.

He won't like all of it.

This play is such a rarity, but whenever the need occurs, there is a fundamental and incremental need for it to be more extreme than the last time. Pushing, and edging into new territory. It's what you do on a daily basis. Why should it be any different in the bedroom?

You collect the black dress box from the back of your closet. It smells faintly of some expensive, foreign perfume Francis got his secretary to purchase as an apology when he was unable to make one of your fundraisers last year.

You place it on the bed. You remove the lid and then you remove the new things. The things you haven't used before.

You take the first item out: a black, rubber ball-gag (That's the one thing he's going to loathe, but why should all the fun be his?) You place it on the bed, directly in front of him. Next, you show him the thick, leather flogger that's probably going to shred his back, and then the new restraints. He eyes the set of Bean Cobb Handcuffs you acquired at auction: 19th century manacles, antique, companioned with a thick waist chain.

"These are, different." Francis observes, letting them dangle from his finger. "Expensive?"

"Very." You admit, before taking them from him.

You thought they'd appeal to his appreciation of history. The little smirk he gives you as he hands them back confirms that you were right.

Finally, you remove the long, red candle – you got that from the same cheap thrill site that you acquired the flogger from.

These are the things you're going to hurt him with. You lay them out in front of him so he can get a good look. If he has any real objection, he'll tell you now. You don't use safe words anymore, but you will be silencing him, so you want him to object now, if he's got any reservations.

There is a raise of the eyebrow and an uncertain frown when he returns his gaze to the ball-gag.

"Really?" He drawls, dismissively.

You snake your fingers into his hair, form a tight grip, and then draw his head back against your stomach, making him look up, into your eyes.

"Really - now if you have any further input on how this is going to play out, you'd better offer it now, because in a few moments you won't be able to."

Your smile is quick and dangerous, his is soft and submissive. You release your grip and throw his head forward.

"No my dear, this is your rodeo; I'm merely the unfortunate steer at your mercy."

That smile and that Southern drawl… You love him for it. You really are going to hurt him, and he really is going to let you.

"Good. Now why don't you pick up the gag and try it on."

"I've watched enough terrible porn to know these things make a person drool, uncontrollably. I might drool all over your nice bed sheets."

"I don't mind. Put it on, now. I won't ask again."

"This little tiger is fiery tonight, huh? Well, be careful with those claws, won't you? – You know I trust your judgement, but I've got a busy schedule tomorrow. Let's make sure any marks left are in places others won't see them"

"Of course."

He places the gag into his mouth and you fix it securely around his head. Then you retrieve the cuffs and the waist chain that make up the restraint set. He places his hands behind his back, but you bring them quickly to the front of him. You clip the thick waist chain around him, and then clip the antique cuffs around his wrists

"Okay? Not too tight?"

He gives a little shrug. You don't think they're too tight, but you know if they are, he'll take it anyway. Finally, you attach the cuffs to the waist chain with a little metal clip.

By the time you've restrained him, he's already drooling a little from the gag. You fetch some make-up wipes, take one, and drop the packet on the bed. You dab each side of his mouth before you begin. He gives you a slightly laboured look as if to say – this is all your own doing, don't blame me.

You then retrieve the one thing you didn't show him earlier from the box. You let it dangle from your finger as you bring it into view: a tacky slave collar, leather, with little studs around it, and a matching leash.

He rolls his eyes.

You return to your spot behind him, placing your hand on his forehead, as you gently push him back against you. Then you collar him, and clip the leash to the D-ring, allowing the chain to fall down along his stomach. You hand him the leather end of it, and he takes it in his hand

"Good boy," you say, condescendingly, then you take the flogger and strike quickly. You go straight for a medium pace, rather than a soft build-up. His posture stiffens quickly.

You give him twenty good lashes then observe. His eyes are already closed. There is saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, and his back is a nice, vibrant pink.

"I'd like you to count out the next twenty as best you can – I know it'll be difficult, but you can try. Do you understand?"

He nods.

You bring the flogger down, hard, across his right shoulder blade. He groans into the gag, and glances quickly up at you.

"One," you say helpfully, raising your eyebrows, as you take his head and turn it away from you.

He offers the best "One" he can muster through a mouth full of rubber.

"Between counts, why don't you bite down, dear? It might help with the pain." You strike him hard again.

He flinches and mumbles something that could be deciphered as "Fwuckoo" but you're not sure.

You smile, and grab the collar, pulling him back sharply against your body.

"Are you going to be difficult, Frank?"

He looks up, considers this for a moment, then he shakes his head. Saliva from the gag slides off his chin and drips onto his belly.

"Good. You can start from one again. "

You begin again, keeping to a brisk, medium force. Slashing in diagonals along his right and then left shoulder blades. He gets to a mumbled nine in his count, and then forgets the ten. You give him a burst of heavy, nasty strikes down his back.

He yelps and arches his back away from the assault. You like the way it sounds, his pain, muffled and strained against the gag. He slumps forward against the bed, breathing heavy.

His back is quite raw now. Extreme crimson with raging, white welts.

"Does that hurt darling?" you say calmly. You don't care if he's in pain. You just know that he needs it.

He nods, eventually, eyes tightly shut, resisting, as you yank the leash to bring him back into an upright position.

"Well suck it up, you're stronger than this," you chastise, but with the gentle reassurance of your palm to the back of his neck

You discard your weapon, briefly, to massage his shoulders until he settles a little. When you resume, you're gentler, allowing the endorphins to kick in, flogging with a gentle, steady rhythm. You swat, and then trail the flogger teasingly along his shoulders, until you sense he's easing into it. Owning it. Taking it. Like you know he can.

Like you know he will.

You keep this up until he's over sensitive, and starts to instinctively flinch away from the gentlest of strikes.

You strike hard, suddenly, three harsh swipes - sending him forward with a loud, whimpering grunt.

As he slumps in pain, you kneel beside him and reach into his shorts. You take a firm grip of his dick; you bring him fully erect quickly, with harsh, unforgiving yanks. A different kind of groan escapes around the rubber and the drool, and he bucks into your hands, greedily, wanting more.

There's a look in his eyes you haven't seen in a very long time. Urgent sexual need, from you.

You let go of him, grabbing at the leash instead, and yanking him back into a kneeling position, before snatching at the wipes so you can dab at the excessive amounts of drool on his lower jaw.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" You say, brandishing the wipe at him.

He nods his agreement.

"Do you like the gag?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you want me to remove it?"

He nods, mumbling something completely unintelligible, and looking about as pathetic as you've ever seen him.

"If I remove that, then you're going to be using your mouth for something else. It'd better be worth my while."

He nods his understanding.

You slip out of your dress and underwear. Then you sit on the bed in front of him. You begin to undo the gag. Once it's free, you wipe it quickly and then discard it on the floor. You take his chin in your hands, and wipe away rest of it. Francis works his jaw.

"I don't like that thing," he admits, hoarsely, chewing the air to get the feeling back in his jaw.

"Then we don't have to use it again," you return, calmly.

"Thank you," he says, before kissing your thigh.

He doesn't need to be told what to do next. For such a selfish man, he's actually very good at this. You lie back and he works hard making you come with nothing but that vicious tongue of his.

When you glance at him you notice he's touching himself now. You can hear the handcuffs clinking together.

"Get your fucking hands off your cock."

He complies, immediately, and continues to focus his full attention on you.

"Good boy," you purr, occasionally tugging at the leash for encouragement.

It does not take long before your breathing intensifies; you flush, and come in a triplet of silent shudders.

"My turn?" He muses breathlessly, when you come back to yourself.

"Soon."

"Please?" He whines.

"No. Any more discussion and the gag will go back on. Is that clear, Frank."

"Yes dear. Can I at least change position?" His voice is back to the one he charms congress with. This is why you wanted to gag him.

"Yes. Stand up."

He slumps forward, and with effort, struggles into a standing position, his erection masting obviously against his shorts. You get him to lie down on his stomach, and reattach the cuffs around his back

You take hold of the candle and show it to him. "Where's your lighter?"

"I don't have one in here."

You pick up the flogger and bring it down mercilessly on his ass.

He howls and bites the bed sheets, groaning and half giggling until he relents.

"Okay, stop, stop, there's one underneath my diary in the bedside cabinet. I think."

"You think?"

"There should be. For ambience, though, right?" He enquires, tracking your movements.

"Nope."

"We've never….done this before. I hope you know what you're doing?"

You ignore his concerns and light the candle. Then you sit beside him on the bed.

"Shush now. If it hurts, you can tell me to stop, and I'll consider it."

You drip the barest of wax onto the raw flesh on his upper back. It produces a squeal of pain, and he ceases his argument

"Jesus, Claire."

"Are you going to man up, Francis Underwood?"

He sighs, heavily. "Yes. Go on. Do your worst."

You let the wax trickle a little, first onto his shoulders, then onto the middle of his back, then up and down the spine. You can tell he's trying to take it, now you've questioned his bravery, and his manhood, but his back is so raw. He can't help but squirm.

"That's so fucking painful," His voice straining, now.

"Shall I stop?"

"Uh…no. Keep going. You're right. I need this."

He bites the pillow, hard, and you continue, carefully.

"You okay?" you ask, after a few quiet, tense minutes of this gentle torture.

"I don't know." He mumbles into the pillow, lost now, in the pain and the pleasure. You place the candle onto the bedside table, careful to not get wax on anything but him.

"Roll onto your side for me."

He complies. You yank his shorts right down, and take him firmly, one then two strokes. He rests his head in your lap, looking into your eyes, as you reach for the candle.

You bring him close before slowing the pace, and then, you drop wax all over his crotch.

His eyes shut, and his fists clench in a ball behind him, as you carefully let the drops hit him, while increasing your speed.

"Oh god don't…so fucking painful, Claire."

"Beg me."

"Please," his voice breaks a little, "please, no more wax."

You relent, and then you bring him to climax, and a series of low groans trickle out of him until he's spent.

You leave him in an exhausted daze, restrained in a ball on the bed, while you wash up

When you return he hasn't moved an inch. You uncuff him, and begin to carefully pick the wax from his back. He squeals a little with each piece that peels away.

"I love you," he says, with all the energy he has left.

"I know." You return, kissing his flushed cheek.

"C'mere," he says then, pulling you close to him.

"Francis – you're covered in wax! – you'll get it everywhere."

"It's already fucking _everywhere_. Relax. Throw the sheets out tomorrow; I'll buy you some new ones."

He pulls you into a tight, possessive hug, kissing your neck softly.

"I love you Claire Underwood."

You lie silently for a few moments.

"Was that good?"

"Very good."

"You're going to be sore tomorrow."

"Who gives a solitary fuck?" He chuckles, tiredly. "What would I be without you?" He mumbles then, sleepily against your neck.

"Hush now. Sleep," you soothe.

But he's right. What indeed.


End file.
